


i am a wrecking ball, i've run the guillotine

by Plooby



Series: and as we fall we sing [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: And Then There's This Asshole, Dragon Age: Origins - Witch Hunt DLC, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25736224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plooby/pseuds/Plooby
Summary: A little while after the end of Awakening, Warden-Commander Cyrith Tabris is summoned back to Denerim by King Alistair, to receive a piece of intelligence that shouldn't be trusted to other channels. It is not what you'd call a great reunion for anyone.
Relationships: Alistair & Male Warden (Dragon Age), Morrigan/Male Tabris (Dragon Age)
Series: and as we fall we sing [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790470
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	i am a wrecking ball, i've run the guillotine

He hadn't done it on purpose, but by the time they got to the Palace District it was dawning on Cyrith that he'd managed to bring an entourage who might hate visiting Denerim almost as much as he did. Velanna had considered even Amaranthine much too big a city and was looking around her with undisguised horror, Nathaniel couldn't be excited to visit the site of his father's disgrace and death even now, and even Oghren was actually very subdued, for Oghren, once they were inside the walls. Almost as though the phantom stench of darkspawn and smoke were suddenly following him, too, the deeper they made their way into the city. It was all actually sort of satisfying to notice, at any rate, in a petty way. At least they all disliked it together.

Denerim looked better by now, for its part, even though there were still plenty of signs of destruction and rebuilding efforts both. A year later, people seemed to be going about their business in a way that was almost something like normal again. Cyrith didn't know if that was true in the alienage as well, but he had no intention of stopping by to find out. In spite of everything (or maybe because of it), he still didn't think he was what he'd call welcome there; even his father didn't seem to know what to say to him anymore, and as close as they'd been before, he'd had the distinct impression that seeing his face again didn't do Shianni any favors -- even when it wasn't covered in blood. It was fine, though. Let them mind their business, and he'd mind his.

The other Wardens split off from him at the palace entrance, hustled off by the royal steward to quarters for the night, and in Oghren's case no doubt going on from there to find something to drink. Or everything to drink. And possibly not just Oghren. Cyrith allowed himself a moment of envy at that idea as he passed through the enormous main receiving chamber, behind the guard who was guiding him, and down the next corridor to a smaller and more modest room. There were only a few decorations in it that looked worth more coin than had passed through the entire first twenty-odd years of Cyrith's life, and the main furnishing was just a large and heavy dark wood table that stretched down the length of the room. And, sitting at it, of course, was Alistair.

He looked well enough, was Cyrith's first impression. Better-dressed. Tired, maybe. More serious around the face than Cyrith tended to remember him. He was looking at some letters he'd piled on his end of the tabletop, and for a moment even after the guard had showed Cyrith in, he didn't look up.

"Hello, Alistair," Cyrith said, taking it on himself, and put his best smile across his mouth as Alistair finally looked at him. Alistair didn't return it, but that had been reasonable to expect. His expression actually didn't change much at all, really.

"Oh," Alistair said, and in the course of that one word he did get the slightest ironic twist around the mouth. "You made it." He let that linger a moment, and then sat back from the papers, rubbing his hands over his face. "I wasn't sure how soon to expect you. Was your journey all right?"

"Fine. The Pilgrim's Path is pretty well clear now. Not that I can take most of the credit." He came further in, up to the table, unshouldering his pack to set it by his feet. "How have you been?"

The dry ironic creases at Alistair's mouth deepened. "Well, no one I trusted has stabbed me in the back and betrayed everything I thought we both stood for recently, so fine, I suppose," he said, mild as could be. "And how's Amaranthine treating you? I have to admit, I was impressed you were in the arling almost half a year before the city burned to the ground. I would have given better odds on a fortnight."

Cyrith maintained his smile quite steadily. "Must be losing my edge with the Blight over," he said, lightly, and shrugged. "It's all right. Quieting down now, and I've made some decent recruits. They're an odd bunch, but they come through when it matters." He paused a moment, considering where to step. "And how is Anora?"

"Oh, she's well enough. Trying to run everything out from under me, like always." Alistair's mouth twisted again, in that same way that seemed more like a grimace than his more ordinary smile. "Do you know, though, I think she's having a harder time of that than she expected. It seems like she's starting to get pretty annoyed with my refusing to shut up and be a figurehead all the time. It's such a shame. I don't think any of this has turned out to be what you and she bargained for, it must be quite frustrating."

"And you wondered why I was never much on the idea of marriage." That won him a darker look than he'd actually meant for it to, though, and Cyrith hesitated a moment before dropping it: even letting the smile go, for a smaller, humbler one. "Well... I'm glad you're both well. Whatever you might think. So did you just get backed up on barbs and want to get them all out at once, or was there a reason you asked to speak to me?"

"Trust me, that's nowhere near all of them," Alistair said, dryly, but then he sighed. "No, I do need to discuss something. Have a seat."

Cyrith obliged, settling into the chair at the opposite end of the table with a slight frown. Alistair waited for him to, and then appeared to consider a moment, looking down at everything on the tabletop without really seeming to see it.

"I've had reports from some patrols that she's been spotted," he said. It wasn't precisely in an undertone, and there wasn't precisely any reason for it to be, but it still seemed like his voice had lowered. "I can't verify it myself, but the description was fairly clear."

Nothing changed in Cyrith's face in the slightest as he looked at Alistair. He never even thought of asking who was meant by _she_. "Where?"

"The Korcari Wilds. Back near her mother's house, in fact." Alistair's mouth thinned a little. "That was actually what made me question whether it was true, but... I can't see any reason yet why it wouldn't be. And if it's a trap, I'm not the one it would be set for." The look in his eyes as they met Cyrith's was complex, the troubled parts of it not really able to outweigh the ones that were still bitter. "But I thought you would want to know anyway."

"I would," Cyrith said, and formed a smile with his mouth as much out of habit as anything. "Thank you."

"I wouldn't thank me, if I were you," Alistair said, but he actually sounded almost amused this time. "Are you going to go?"

Cyrith hesitated, but he did his best to keep the smile firm. "Is your telling me not a royal request for me to go, then?"

"No, it isn't. Very specifically not." Alistair sighed, rolling his head to rub the back of his neck. He really did look tired. "Look... I really don't think I should have much to do with you, these days. And that's not a 'barb' this time, that's being practical. If there is one thing I _do_ still trust you with, it's getting the things done that the Wardens need to get done -- by any means necessary." There was no way Cyrith or anyone else could have missed the sour weight on that last phrase. "And I don't think you and I having any sort of official relationship is actually going to make that job any easier. So -- no royal requests." Before Cyrith could do much more than allow himself a brief expression of mildly impressed surprise, though, Alistair was looking in his eyes again and going on, with a grimness at the corners of his mouth. "And it's not a personal one, either, because as a matter of fact I don't think you _should_ go. I think if you have any sense you'll cut your losses and go back to Vigil's Keep and stay there. Not that I have particularly high hopes for either of those things, mind you."

Cyrith gave all of that a moment to settle -- still a little more taken aback in general than he would have liked to let on. Finally he nodded, keeping everything in his expression mild and friendly. "Thanks for the advice."

"Yes, I'm sure you'll take it to heart," Alistair said, sourer than ever. "I know how much you value my opinion. How is _Warden Mac Tir_ , anyway? Apparently he hasn't decided to murder all of your new recruits yet, at least; was that a personal favor?"

It probably wouldn't have been prudent to roll his eyes, so Cyrith settled for another smile. "I've only seen him the once," he said, keeping the same tone and expression so unblinkingly that a little part of him could only hope it was maddening, in spite of himself. "He stopped by the Vigil to give his regards. He was on his way to Montsimmard; apparently he'd been transferred to Orlais by order from Weisshaupt."

Alistair let out a humorless little _ha!_ of a laugh. "Well, that's something, at least. Wish I could've seen his face when he found out."

"Does it make you feel better to blame him for everything?" Cyrith asked -- and now he had gone softer, now he couldn't help himself. Alistair's head jerked up, stiffly, but Cyrith went on all the same. "He's not what you think he is, Alistair. He never was. He's just another person who had a terrible decision in front of him, and he made it. He's never made any excuses for it, and he's never expected any forgiveness. I think that's admirable, actually."

"I suppose you would," Alistair said. His face barely seemed to move with the words, and his voice came out like he was trying to choke it past some enormous and poisonous blockage. "A _decision_. What a way to put it. Like he was trying to pick out some vegetables at the shops."

His throat worked, his hands tightening on the edge of the table. "Do you know," Alistair spat out, finally, again with a mix of venom and straining effort, "how long I tried to tell myself that you were doing your best? That it was a bad situation and you were really trying? I might not _agree_ with you on everything, every now and then I'd get a weird feeling, sure, but you just kept being this really nice, pleasant, charming person, people falling all over you, telling me how much you wanted to help, and I... Maker, I convinced myself I'd just been _jealous_ of you. You just saw things differently, you just made a mistake this time, you just did your best but the odds were against you. But finally I couldn't keep myself from seeing the truth of it: you didn't _care_. You _never_ cared, you just... calculated. And you did what was best for you. And then you forgot about it, because it didn't matter to you, none of the people and none of the consequences. Certainly not me. Least of all me."

Cyrith waited until he was sure Alistair was finished; until Alistair was just sitting, breathing harder, staring down at the table and seeming to struggle to collect himself. "Whether you believe it or not, I always did honestly consider you a friend," he said, quietly, at last. "I still do, as far as I'm concerned. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"It's worth nothing," Alistair said, and looked up, straight at him. "Anything you say you feel is worth nothing. Every time, it's just to get something you want. To make something happen. It's never actually because it's what's inside you, because it's what you mean. I'm not even sure you know how to do that, to be honest."

Cyrith didn't say anything to that. It didn't seem worth it to try.

Alistair sighed, at last, starting to subside, and rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I wanted to believe you were the one person I had left," he said, low, sounding like it was mostly to himself. "But I don't have anyone, really, except me. You tried to tell me that yourself. And I know it wasn't really about me, you just wanted to convince me to be more like you so I wouldn't give you a hard time, but... you weren't wrong, either. So that was my mistake."

That actually did sting, unexpectedly so. Cyrith tried not to let it onto his face anyway -- whether Alistair would have believed that part either, or not. And could he have argued, really, if he'd wanted to? He'd certainly never meant Alistair any harm, even liked him and enjoyed his company, as slow as they'd been to warm up to each other. He wasn't convinced he'd ever really meant anybody any harm, at least anybody who hadn't specifically earned it. All he'd ever thought of himself as really meaning to do was survive. One thing after another had come up, and he'd done what seemed the most sensible thing, and it had worked out however it had. Being able to strive for anything more still seemed to him like an impossible, unimaginable privilege. Had he cared what the end result would be for the people involved? The question didn't even seem relevant. It would be what it was. What would his caring change?

It was uncomfortable to think, now, that it might have been an end in itself. That there might have been value in just the effort of holding on. Especially given how the one time he'd really tried to do that, he'd failed.

"Was there anything else?" he asked at last, quietly. And something in the way his voice sounded seemed to take what was left of the fight out of Alistair, letting him sigh out a long breath and finally just look wearier than ever.

"Nothing in particular, no. If you get the chance, it might be good to catch up with the guard and military advisors about everything that's happened lately. You don't answer to me, but it'd make sense to coordinate." He took another breath, and met Cyrith's eyes, looking only neutral again now. "You may as well stay in Denerim for a little while, too, as long as you're here. Be a hero for a bit. People could use that."

Cyrith nodded, if a bit reluctantly. "I think we can manage that." He paused, and then added, "I do appreciate your telling me, though. Whatever you might think about it."

Alistair didn't really respond to that one way or another. "I'll let you get settled, then," he said, and his mouth twisted slightly. "Thank you for coming, Warden-Commander Tabris."

"Your Majesty," Cyrith said, deliberately. This time, though, the smile he tried for wouldn't come.

He had already risen and nearly reached the door, his pack in hand again, when Alistair's voice stopped him. It sounded a bit compressed, even before he turned -- like maybe Alistair couldn't hold back one last thing.

"You've never stopped wearing that ring," Alistair said, and looking back at him Cyrith found him still seated, still looking up at him steadily. "You... really were in love with her, weren't you?"

He couldn't have said he was expecting the question, but Cyrith couldn't see any point in any answer but the truth. "Yes," he said, simply. Not looking away.

Alistair nodded, slowly, appearing to take that in. "Good," he said, at last. "It's good to know there's one thing you do care about, at least." He paused another moment, and then looked straight in Cyrith's eyes, his voice measured. "And you deserve what she's done to you."

There was, of course, no possible way to respond to that. Cyrith didn't bother to try.

He left the meeting room and made his way deeper into the palace, instead, in search of the steward who would take him to where he could put down his things. Maybe he'd join the others for a drink eventually, if they'd gotten that far, and if he was of a mind. Eventually. Maybe.

For right now, though, the only thing he really wanted to do was sit for a while, and look at nothing in particular. And turn his fingers absently around the ring he always wore where in another life he might have had a wedding band, which had sat silent now for what seemed like a very long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Responsible" by Cloud Cult.
> 
> (An additional note: The next piece in this series will both be the last planned piece about Taerahel, and the last planned piece of the series overall. It also, however, promises to be HUGELY long, and may take quite a while to be posted.)


End file.
